


Stories for Min

by quartetship



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-04-15 14:44:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4610652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quartetship/pseuds/quartetship
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of bite-sized, sugar-coated JeanMarco fics, all inspired by the art of my dear friend, Min.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Flower Stories

**Author's Note:**

> This first collection is called 'Flower Stories', because it is a sampling of small pieces inspired by [this](http://thechosenchu.tumblr.com/post/113881068840/idk-im-really-into-traditional-art-these-days) collection of traditional art by [TheChosenChu](thechosenchu.tumblr.com). The short stories in this 'chapter' are not related, and are simply collected here based on theme and inspiration. 
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> \--

- **Blossoms** -

Jean hates to sleep alone.

When he and Marco meet in primary school, it's not long before they're having sleepovers, camped out in one of their livings rooms, watching movies until their parents yell at them to sleep. It's so much fun, but it's always over too soon. The nights that stretch between laughter filled sleepovers remind Jean that he hates being alone after dark.

The summer that the dreams begin, Jean is almost  _glad_  he sleeps alone. Vision of kissing his best friend leave him wishing he could stay asleep for hours, pretend it wasn't all in his head. But the way they leave him breathless - face red when he looks in the mirror first thing in the morning, embarrassed – make him glad he sleeps alone.

They're walking through the forest behind Marco’s grandparents house that fall when Jean finally tells him. He expects to never speak to him again, to lose their friendship between fallen leaves. Instead, Marco wordlessly takes his hand and leads him to a clearing, where late blooming flowers color the ground. He pulls Jean after him and they run, barely breathing between shouts and laughs as they tumble into the tall foliage, leaves scattering around them. Their first kiss is quieter, flowers fisted in Jean’s hand as Marco leans in to close the space between them. But it's enough, and that night, Jean can't think of anything else.

After that, sleeping alone gets harder.

Sometimes they don't have to. They keep secrets well, but Jean is thankful that his parents don't question the flowers he sometimes brings home, or the boy he brings home even more often. They still stay up all night, laughing and talking until their parents shout. But it's  _more_  now, fingers laced and lips pressed together in silence. Those are the things Jean thinks about when Marco isn't there. It helps. A little.

By the time they're nearing adulthood, sleeping alone is nearly unbearable. Jean can't rest without Marco, not when he knows what it's like to share warmth with him, hear him breathing as they drift off together. His body aches for arms around it, and begins to forget how to fall asleep on its own. Friends and family ask, but he won't tell anyone why he's always so tired, least of all Marco.

His gift from Marco that year for his birthday includes a bag of beautiful, dried purple flowers, and he smiles down at them without even knowing why. That night, he puts them under his pillowcase, just the way Marco tells him to, and for once, he doesn't struggle to find sleep. When he wakes up the next morning, he's greeted by the smell of flowers, and the thought of Marco.

He starts his day with a smile.

Things are different, once summer comes again. They still have sleepovers, sometimes camping in the nearby forest or sleeping in the garage apartment room Marco now lives in. They still hold each other under blankets, even when it's too warm, still trade stories and kisses under stars or lights strung across the ceiling. They still miss each other when they can't be together at night, talking on the phone until they can't think of anything more to say.

But when the moon rises, Jean grabs a handful of flowers from the bag Marco keeps filled for him, tucks them under his pillow, and sleeps without a problem. Because Marco will be there, tomorrow. The sun will bring his smiling face with it, and until then, Jean can dream.

 

- **Summer** -

Summer has always been Jean’s favorite season. Flowers in bloom, warm breezes floating through open windows, and fireflies bringing the starlit heavens to earth, every evening. Not to mention the way the summer sun lights Marco’s eyes, as he walks barefoot through the creek that runs behind his little apartment, gathering the wild flowers that grow there.

But not every summer is quite so bright.

There was a summer - when Jean was still unsure of himself, still didn't know who or  _where_  he wanted to be – that was nothing but rain. That was the summer he and Marco decided to take a break, while Jean studied abroad. Or rather, the summer that Jean left him behind.

Every day he traveled was plagued by rain. It seemed a string of bad luck, the way clouds followed him all over Europe, every country greeting him with dark skies. Halfway through the summer, he wondered what the weather back home was like, and found himself missing it. He wrote a letter, and not two weeks later, he got his reply.

It was sunny, Marco said. But he hadn't been out much to enjoy it. Things were the same as they’d always been, but not quite as lovely without Jean there. Surely though, he must be having a great time overseas, and Marco wished him a wonderful rest of his stay. He closed his letter with a shaky scribbled of his name, and what looked like a poorly erased ‘I love you’. The paper was a soft, sunny yellow, and wrinkled slightly as it dried from the Jean’s tears. He wrote back that same evening.

_‘Things here are fine,’_  he wrote,  _‘but there isn't a flower in sight. Not that I need flowers, of course. But I miss the way they make me smile.’_

When he returned home, he didn't expect much ceremony. Taking off from the first airport, the dreary weather that had followed him all summer still hung heavy overhead. But stepping off of the final plane, he stepped into sunshine, for the first time in weeks.

And waiting just inside the airport lobby, was a boy with an armful of flowers, and a smile brighter than even the sunniest day.

Jean has always loved the summer. Mostly because he doesn't have to spend it alone.

 

- **Daisy Chains** -

When Jean met Marco, they were children. Marco loved flowers, even then. He could make chains and crowns and bracelets from blossoms. He tried to show Jean how, but Jean did not have the patience to learn. So Marco made them for him.

He kept some of those creations, though he would never admit it to Marco. And now, moving their things into one, shared apartment, he still has no intention of saying a word. Until one of the books he'd pressed the blooms into falls open, and he's left with no choice.

Marco is a florist, now. He works with flowers every day. He makes arrangements for lovesick teenagers going to dances, for weddings and funerals and everything in between. Yet when he sees the dried string of daisies hit the floor of Jean’s nearly empty bedroom, his eyes well with tears.

“You  _saved_  them?” He asks, and Jean nods, pulling another book from the shelf. He cracks the spine to reveal more flowers, pressed between pages with dates written beside them.

“Couldn’t make ‘em myself,” he laughs. “Still can’t. S’why I have to marry you.”

Marco laughs, tears still streaking his face as he pulls Jean into a hug. They stand in front of a bookcase, kissing until they're laughing too much, careful to replace the dried mementos where they belong.

They get married the next summer, just the two of them, on the beach. They watch thes in begin to set, dressed in nothing but shorts and t-shirts, barefoot as the water tickles their feet. Marco plucks a handful of flowers from the place where the sand meets the grass, and Jean takes some from him as they make their way up the stairs to their room. On the balcony, they listen to the tide roll in, and Jean tucks flowers behind Marco’s ear.

“Still can't make anything with ‘em,” he says, smiling lazily in Marco’s direction. He drops his head into Marco’s lap, and Marco hums his contentment.

“That’s okay,” he smiles. “That’s why you married me.”

And they spend the last remaining hints of daylight in the breezy seaside air, Jean watching the waves as Marco makes another chain for his collection.

 

- **May Flowers** -

Rainy days are good for chores.

Stuck inside the house, Jean busies himself with projects he'd forgotten needed doing until the sky opened up and the sun disappeared. Fixing a broken cabinet, patching a leak in the basement, and hanging pictures in the guest room.

There's a stack on the bed of framed photos, and a few paintings he did back when he actually had time. Marco kept them, insisting they would hang them once they had their own place. Now they do, but between a full time job and coaching in the evenings, Jean never seems to find time to do things like hang pictures. So the first thing he does is blow dust off the pile.

There's plenty of wall space, and most of the frames go up without much work. But one is heavy, a little large for Jean to hold while steadying it. He struggles with it for a moment before giving up, laying it back on the bed and staring out the window. Outside the weather is gloomy, overcast skies reminiscent of the way he feels lately, too busy to breathe, save for a day when he's trapped inside. He sits on the bed, still watching the rain fall, until he hears footsteps heading his way.

Marco peeks around the door frame, and smiles at Jean like he knows Jean needs it.

And he does.

He pats the bed beside him and Marco joins him, fingers lacing with Jean’s as they look wordlessly around the room together. Marco squeezes, silent thanks for the task near completed, but then glances down at the picture still sitting beside Jean on the neatly tucked blankets. He points; Jean frowns.

“Too heavy,” he says simply. Marco shrugs.

“I’ll help.”

They pick the frame up together, Marco holding it while Jean readies a spot on the wall. Passing it between them to level it up, Marco grins at him before catching Jean’s hand, and then his lips in a kiss, and Jean feels himself smile for the first time all day. They press their noses together, linger for a moment before lifting the frame together, and mounting it on the wall.

Jean steps back to look at it - a big, beautiful print of him and Marco, the day they signed off on the mortgage for their home, sharing a kiss while Sasha dumped flowers over them. He remembers Marco insisting that they clean the petals up afterward. He remembers the way it smelled, the scent of the blooms still clinging to their skin mingling with the smell of fresh paint inside their new home. And he remembers the way Marco looked that day, all glowing happiness. It's the same way he looks today, and every day, even if there are a few more lines beside his eyes when he smiles now.

Marco is the sunshine of Jean’s life, and when he kisses Jean’s cheek once more and whispers “looks great”, Jean can't help but grin. Marco leaves again, off to work on some project of his own, but Jean watches him go before glancing back over at the window.

Outside, the clouds begin to break, and the sun peeks through the glass, reflecting brilliantly off the gold painted frames of their pictures.

“Perfect,” Jean whispers to himself. And it is.


	2. Nice to Have

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tiny story of a teddy bear and a very thoughtful boyfriend, with the original and its inspiration art posted [here](http://quartetship.tumblr.com/post/115543562729/nice-to-have-snk-jeanmarco)!
> 
> \--

When Jean turned twelve, he made the ‘very adult’ decision to throw away all of his old toys and blankets.

Short of actually hitting puberty – which was happening  _much_  slower than he would have liked – it was the best way he could think of to wiggle out of the shoes of childhood. He boxed and bagged them all up and donated them, forgoing throwing them away at his mother’s insistence. Gone were his near-threadbare baby blankets and the stuffed animals that used to line his bedside. He replaced them with concert posters, and sheets in plain, dark colors and scented by traces of the cologne he was  _sure_  made him smell like a man.

He definitely didn't need them, anymore.

Except, on certain nights, he wasn't so confident in his decision. When thunder shook the house and lightning sent his head ducking under a pillow, he silently wished for his old blankets to wrap around his shaking shoulders. When his first crush broke his heart, he came home longing to bury himself in a mound of soft animals, pretending the world didn't exist, anymore. And the first time he kissed Marco, he found himself wishing he still had his favorite stuffed bear, to hug and cuddle and fall asleep holding, since he couldn't hold Marco.

But those were relics of childhood, and by then, he was nearly a man.

Their first Christmas together in college, Marco insisted that he'd found a very special gift for a Jean. He kept it tucked away in a large box in the closet of their dorm, occupying nearly the entire space there. Jean tried to peek, wondering what could be inside such a huge package, and how he was possibly going to equal it. By the time they decided to exchange gifts, the night before they left for break, Jean was  _dying_  to rip the paper off and see what on earth Marco was hiding.

When he opened it, he felt himself deflate, slightly. It looked like nothing more than a stuffed animal, and in rough shape, to boot. He stared down at it, trying to think of something polite to say, when Marco inevitably asked him what he thought.

But Marco didn't say anything. He tugged the box back toward himself, and pulled out the scuffed-up stuffed bear inside. Then he held it up, and  _beamed_  back at Jean, patient,  _expectant_. Jean stared at him for a moment, before suddenly recognizing something about the toy in his arms.

The tiny, stitched mouth was turned down in a pouty little frown.  _Just like…_

His eyes welled with tears before he was even sure  _why_ , but then Marco waved the bear’s arm at him, and Jean saw it – the little patch where he’d messily penned his initials nearly a decade before. He bit his lip hard but couldn't stop himself crying, laughing through tears as he grabbed the bear  _and_  his boyfriend.

He didn't need it, anymore. But it was certainly nice to have.


	3. Too Hot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short story about being too hot. (Original and inspirational artwork [here](http://quartetship.tumblr.com/post/118282435844/too-hot-snk-jeanmarco)!)
> 
> \--

Jean hates being too hot.

In the tiny apartment he shares with Marco, there's almost no way around it, from spring until the last days of fall. With no air conditioning and fans that only work when they damn well please, it's not exactly comfortable, but it's livable and it's  _theirs_ and it's  _home_. So he usually resigns himself to complaining for three quarters of the year.

Even before the first muggy mornings of May have settled in, Jean wakes up hot. It's never enough to keep him from winding his arms and legs around Marco's in the evenings as they drift off together, but every morning, as he peels their bodies apart, he regrets it. Until Marco sits up beside him and kisses his sweaty forehead, and then he forgets to care.

The shower is nice, whether Marco joins him or not. It gives Jean a respite from the oppressive humidity, and leaves his skin smelling like something other than sweat. Occasionally Marco  _does_ join him, and those are Jean's favorite showers. But even those only cool him down for a little while.

It's one of those hot days, a Saturday afternoon with the temperature climbing past ninety, that Jean finds himself in the floor of their small living room, glaring at the open window in disdain. There's no breeze to speak of, and the fan is having an 'off' day again. When Marco shuffles by and asks what he's doing - lying in the floor with a stuffed animal as a pillow, in nothing but a loose t-shirt and the smallest shorts he owns - Jean mumbles something about heat rising, and Marco laughs all the way to the kitchen.

When he returns, he plops down in the floor next to Jean, scooting up behind him until their bodies almost press together. Jean grumbles like he might protest, but then flops backward onto Marco's outstretched legs, no heat too bothersome to keep him from cuddling his entirely too chipper boyfriend. Marco starts collecting Jean's loose hair into his fingers and twisting it; Jean turns around to find out why.

Marco himself is already wearing his hair pulled up, a small spout of it just long enough to pull up on top of his head. Jean laughs, but Marco insists that it's cooler. To show him, he holds Jean's hair in his hand, blowing gently on the exposed skin of his scalp. Jean shivers, and his mind is almost immediately changed. He lets Marco pull up his hair, only complaining a little bit about the way it tugs his skin. He steals Marco's soft slippers in retribution; Marco doesn't protest.

When he turns around to show the finished product to Marco, the adorable, love struck expression on his boyfriend's face makes sitting through an impromptu styling session totally worth it for Jean. Marco presses his open palms to his cheeks, grinning from one to the other, and Jean can't help smiling back. He runs a hand over the ridiculous ponytail on top of his head, sighs a last complaint about the heat and tosses one of Marco's slippers at the fan. It finally starts working, and they sit together in the floor, enjoying what breeze there is and forgetting to be mad about the weather.

Being hot isn’t  _too_ bad, Jean decides. As long as Marco is there to help him keep his cool.


	4. Pickles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tale of two neighbors, and a cat named Pickles. (Originally posted along with inspirational artwork [here](http://quartetship.tumblr.com/post/121137168179/pickles-snk-jeanmarco)!)
> 
> \--

_"Great_. Looks like another stupidly hot day, Pick."

The weather report was just annoying enough that day that Jean felt the need to audibly complain. He was not in the habit of speaking out loud, when he was at home. With few visitors, there was rarely anyone for him to talk to. Jean lived alone.

Just he, himself, and an unusually cuddly orange tabby cat, named Pickles.

Jean had received Pickles as a gift in high school. He'd wanted a dog, something energetic that he could take running, the kind of pet that looked just as good at his side when he was out for walks as it did when he was curled up in his room, reading. He'd wanted the kind of pet that made an impression on other people, when he was too shy to do it himself.

Instead, he got a lazy little kitten, which soon became a chubby little cat.

Still, Pickles was special to him. In his moves from one apartment to another, one city to the next, the only constant in Jean's life was his cat. He packed Pickles around the state with him, happy that even though he never had time to make many friends in the towns he lived in, he always had something to come home to. Someone who cared that he was there.

Pickles was also remarkably lacking in judgement of Jean. When Jean had come out to his parents his senior year, his father had all but put him out on the curb, next to a pile of his possessions and alongside his pet. But Pickles was happy there, so long as Jean was there, too. Cats didn't care who you were or what you liked, as long as you liked  _them_  well enough. That was something Jean identified with.

So even on his worst days, he was glad to have kept his cat. He was nearly as old as many of Jean's threadbare clothes, but he still greeted Jean at the door every day, glad to see him home. There were worse ways to live, to be sure.

The only frustrating thing about keeping a cat in a busy corner block apartment complex was the fact that Pickles liked to roam. It was in his nature to seek freedom, Jean understood; he tried to give Pickles as many chances at enjoying fresh air as he could manage. But sometimes he would go missing for hours, and Jean would be left searching the sidewalks until he happened upon him and could begrudgingly carry him home again.

That was exactly the case, on that sunny June afternoon. Jean was working from home, but found his home unusually quiet, that day. Pickles had been missing since morning, and traffic was especially heavy in the nearby streets. Jean worried about what would happen to his beloved cat if he were to mistakenly wander too close to the roads. So foregoing lunch, he peeled off his sweatshirt and set out to find him, hoping he wouldn't have to resort to shouting the word 'pickles' in the middle of the street. Again.

After a solid twenty minutes of searching, Jean was hot, sweaty and frustrated by his inability to find his cat. Muttering curses that his cat wouldn't understand even if he  _did_  find him, Jean turned back, hoping he'd find Pickles along the way home. On his way, he did see something of interest to him, but it had little to do with searching for his cat.

A tall, smiling stranger carried a bag of groceries, heading toward the lobby of Jean's own apartment complex. He whistled as he fumbled in his pocket, perhaps for a key, and when he turned around to glance behind him, Jean was struck by how absolutely  _adorable_  he was. The stranger gave up on digging through his pocket when he spotted something on the ground beside him.

A small, orange tabby cat.

Jean groaned at his luck and made his way over to collect his pet.

"Hi there, little guy!" The stranger smiled, and the closer Jean got to where he was kneeling beside Pickles, the better he could make out the other man's features, big, smiling brown eyes and pale, freckled skin that stood in contrast to shiny, nearly black hair. Jean's throat tightened. The stranger looked up when Jean came closer, sharing that smile with him, and Jean had to force his voice to function.

"H-hey," he muttered, gesturing toward Pickles. "That's my cat." When the stranger's smile faltered slightly, Jean did his best to show gratitude. "You found him!"

"Oh, I'm glad, then!" The other man stood upright and shifted the bag under one arm into the other, pausing to pat Pickles on the head before looking back at Jean. "He's sweet. What's his name?"

"Uh, Pickles." Jean felt his face heat up, this time having little to do with the sun warming the rest of his skin. "I got him when I was a kid. Someone else named him."

"That's a cute name," the stranger said, and then smiled more broadly in Jean's direction. "He’s a cute cat; definitely suits you.” Before it could register that he was  _flirting_  with Jean, he was stepping a little closer, his smile spreading to his eyes, narrowed in the bright sunlight. “What's your name?"

"I'm Jean," Jean said quickly, offering a hand to shake. The other man took it.

"My name's Marco," he said, and he glanced back at the apartment building behind him. "I just moved in here last week. Do you and Pickles live here?"

"Uh, yeah," Jean nodded. "First floor. He likes to get out and roam around sometimes, but he doesn't usually come up and bother people." Jean looked down at Pickles, who was looking back at him innocently, rolling from side to side on his back. He sighed, and returned his eyes to Marco's. "Sorry about that."

"Oh, he wasn't any trouble." Marco bent down again to stroke Pickles' stomach. "If anything he made me feel a little better about living here. This place is like a steel maze; I'm not used to  _seeing_  buildings this big, let alone  _living_  in one." He stood again, but continued to pat at Pickles with his foot. "Maybe I should get a pet. Seems like this place would be pretty lonely for one guy without one."

_"God,_  yeah," Jean sighed, immediately feeling silly when Marco raised his eyebrows in response. "I mean - Yeah, it kinda sucks living alone. The cat helps."

"I imagine." Marco nodded. "So you and Pickles live alone - mind if I drop in on you two sometime?"

Jean shook his head. "N-no, that'd be awesome! I mean... If you get the time or get bored, or whatever." He tried to pretend that the way his eyes dropped was just a result of a sudden interest in his shoes; Marco laughed, but not in the way Jean feared that he might.

"Sounds like fun. For now, I should probably get these groceries inside before they melt. But if you aren't busy, you're welcome to join me for something to drink." Marco felt at his pocket again and found his key, this time. He smiled back down at Pickles, by then rubbing against his leg and purring loudly, and laughed. "And you can come too, Pickles."

"I think he'll just have water, though." Jean cracked, and Marco laughed louder, a sound Jean could definitely get used to. Later that evening, when the two of them exchanged phone numbers after lingering together for hours, he decided Marco himself was something he  _really_  wanted to get used to.

\--

Six months later, after Jean and Marco had had time for each other's apartments - and arms - to become familiar places, Jean found himself packing to move again. He stayed in the same city, this time, just shifting his things to a larger space, with more room for Pickles to safely roam. The routine was the same, though, and when Jean left one place to head for the other, the last thing he packed was his beloved cat.

They moved across town, to a quieter place. Just Jean, Marco, and a cat named Pickles, who now belonged to both of them.


End file.
